


First Dance

by cywscross



Series: A Love Story for the Ages [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Courtship, M/M, Persephone Stiles, Peter Hale as Hades, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 14:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5094065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olympus is too small for Stiles. It always has been. So he goes and finds a world beyond it, and along the way, he finds something else entirely.</p><p>Peter was bored, and he was only looking for something to alleviate that boredom. But he finds so much more than that, and now he won’t ever let this precious godling go.</p><p>It’s a love story for the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Dance

**Author's Note:**

> I still blame Mar.
> 
> \--
> 
> From this prompt [here](http://stetervault.tumblr.com/post/132007786149/i-love-your-steter-drabbles-i-admit-id-really).

 

Stiles’ father isn’t strict, per se. But he’s never been the same since Stiles’ mortal mother died, and it’s natural to want to keep the only child she bore him close.

Or perhaps it’s the other way around. Perhaps it’s Stiles who doesn’t want to lose something else, but he does anyway when his father falls in love with another woman, and she gives him a son who is as golden as Stiles is strange and off-putting and hard to understand.

The gods are forever falling in and out of love. Stiles should not be surprised when he meets his half-brother whose name is Scott. He is good-natured and friendly and guileless to the core, and Stiles likes him well enough, but he’s also boring and naïve and came  _second_  to Stiles yet their father relates to Scott more, idling their days away in Olympus eating and drinking the food of the gods and chatting away about such banal matters that Stiles sometimes wants to scream.

The gods have no imagination. They frown on the trinkets and stories that Stiles brings back from his ventures down on Earth.  _Leave the mortals to their petty wars and squabbles_ , they say,  _you have no duties to tend to on Earth yet so stay in Olympus where everything is eternal and perfect_.

But it isn’t. It is stagnant and dull and not big enough to contain Stiles’ inherent curiosity and longing for an existence beyond the monotonous one he has. Even the vivacious wit of Aphrodite’s favourite daughter Lydia and Scott’s encompassing but inevitably doomed love for one of Artemis’ priestesses Allison and Stiles’ own father’s fond but increasingly long-suffering indulgence of Stiles’ whims aren’t enough to keep Stiles occupied.

So he leaves more often. He always comes back, but he leaves for Earth whenever he can sneak away. It isn’t against the laws to visit the mortal realm but when you are neither one of the elder gods nor a god with official business amongst the mortals, it is best to simply hide his numerous visits.

He travels. He never stops. Perhaps he should’ve been born a son of Hermes instead of someone whose responsibilities lie in watching grain grow. Important, yes, very much so, but humans have long since learned how to harvest their own crops, and Stiles’ father spends much of his time drunk on ambrosia now that mortals no longer need as much guidance and direction.

Stiles watches sunrises and sunsets from rocks that jut out into the ocean and take the brunt of the crashing sea waves. Though he will never admit it because he is no fool, he decides that dawn and dusk are more beautiful with salt in his nose and wind in his hair, feet firm on rugged stone, than when he is in Olympus and watching Apollo’s chariot take flight.

He explores the bustle of cities too, disguised behind human skin, and they are as dirty and loud and crowded as the elder gods say, but Stiles apprentices himself under a blacksmith for two seasons (what is six months to a god, even just a minor one?), a potter for another two, a baker for a full four, winter to winter and into the beginning of spring, and even a minstrel for a quarter that, and the ingenuity and dedication that go into each master’s craft result in beauty so fine ( _a katana singing through the air, a set of plates for a single mother’s household enough for every child to have their own, a loaf of bread hot out of the oven gruffly given to a hungry urchin, and human creativity in songs that tell tales of distant lands and heroes and monsters_ ) that Stiles would dare say even Hestia and Hephaestus would be hard-pressed to imitate it.

He finds open spaces as well, out in the countryside, with not another living soul around as far as Stiles’ eyes can see, and when he looks up, there are stars instead of constellations, true magnificence instead of Olympus’ tapestry of fame, lights that glimmer like dew on a spider’s web on cold spring mornings instead of people and animals and objects that the gods deemed important enough to immortalize.

Stiles, pseudo-human and tiny and stuck on the ground, feels so much smaller in the face of such vastness. He thinks he begins to understand why the mortals worship the gods as they do.

And he thinks he admires all the more the select few who were brave enough to defy them.

Come morning, he climbs onto his horse and heads South. He has heard of a festival being held in the next town, one of the few that aren’t in honour of a god or goddess. He doesn’t want to miss it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles finds malice too. Humans, he realizes, have a capacity for it that rivals the gods’. He sees it in men who spit on the starved, in masters who beat their slaves, in husbands who slap their wives around in private to feel powerful and wives who poison their husbands for their gold.

He sees it all, and he thinks,  _mortals are not so different from gods after all_.

The only difference, it seems, is power.

 

* * *

 

Peter first meets Stiles during one of the rare occasions his sister Talia deigns to extend an invitation to him to visit Olympus. He isn’t so much exiled as warily scorned and feared, and Talia hates it when he shows up unannounced.

Which is why he does it every so often, just to keep the others on their toes, although not too often mind you, if only because he is above predictability, and because he doesn’t actually enjoy the other gods’ company all that much anyway.

Stuck in their ways and ever so dull, if you ask Peter, which no one does, and he almost started feuds more than once when he voiced his opinions anyway.

But as much as he disdains his fellow immortals, Peter does keep tabs on them all. You never know when what information will be useful. So he knows when one of Ares’ sons break up with one of Aphrodite’s daughters violently enough that their respective parents all but go to war with each other. He knows where one of Apollo’s sons hides his stash of mortal folktales because he got tired of listening to his father strum his harp. He knows the bitterness in Hephaestus over his wife’s dismissal of him will only fester on no matter how well he hides it. He knows how much one of Dionysus’ daughters hates alcohol of any kind even though she drinks it every time her father pushes it on her.

He knows when the harvest god takes a mortal wife, gains a son, and loses the wife.

He knows the son is delightfully doe-eyed and pretty, and attentive to his father to boot.

He knows the son chafes under the latter.

And – as of his latest visit – he knows that that same son is nowhere in Olympus, if only because he isn’t catering to his father at every turn.  Instead, a boy with bronzed skin that would look more at home on one of Apollo’s children has taken his place, and he seems far more content than his… predecessor.

“Who is that?” Peter asks casually, leaning closer to Talia as he gestures vaguely at the boy sitting and laughing amongst the others of his generation.

And that’s how Peter finds out about the harvest god’s second wife and Scott.

“So there are two sons vying for Demetrios’ attention now,” Peter swirls the liquid in his garishly jewelled goblet. “Wherever is the other one?”

Talia slants him a suspicious look but clearly doesn’t see any harm in offering up the last piece of this newest puzzle.

“Stiles is more of a loner than his brother. He prefers his own company. I believe he’s even walked amongst the mortals a few times, for no other reason than because he wished to.”

Her nose wrinkles.

Peter’s curiosity is piqued.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long to find out what he wants to know. Hermes’ priests the world over have been ordered to give a certain god sanctuary should he ever need a place to stay. The messenger god has grown fond of Stiles, who embodies Hermes’ innate nature better than Hermes’ own blood children, and the god is partially responsible for deflecting attention and shielding Stiles’ adventures into the mortal realm from anyone who asks.

Not that he has to work very hard. Nobody really seems to notice Stiles’ absence much.

But Peter finds out because Peter always finds out, and he is intrigued enough to linger for days on end in Olympus until the little god in question comes home, pristine clothes hastily thrown on and smiling at something only he has seen as he slips into the throng of his peers as if he never left.

The next time Stiles leaves, Peter follows. His kingdom can run itself for a while, and he has always been peripherally interested in Demetrios’ firstborn, wondering if he would ever break free of Olympus’ chains.

It seems the little godling broke free of them ages ago.

It’s summertime when Peter starts watching Stiles wander. He stalks him from a distance, hiding his presence, sometimes as a god, sometimes in human form, sometimes as a wolf in the shadows. He watches Stiles interact with mortals, watches him learn how to weave an arras from one of Arachne’s remaining students, watches him bargain with merchants and listen in on the decisions made at court and grow ever eager when presented with something new.

And then he watches the little god pass judgement and rip open his first human from collarbone to navel with a single swipe of his knife just to save a single slave, unknowingly giving Peter the delicious gift of a corrupted soul.

It is not the last.

His free-spirited, untameable nature drew Peter in.

His heart – kind and cruel in turn – steals Peter’s own forever.

Peter will have him, for better or for worse.

 

* * *

 

Stiles smiles away and pretends he’s enjoying himself at yet another one of the numerous gatherings in Olympus. He wants to leave but even his father’s been asking questions. Also, it’s about time Stiles looks into courting someone, and hasn’t anyone caught his eye yet, enough to offer suit?

Stiles isn’t but he agreed to think about it, so here he is, fidgeting in some of his finest robes and trying not to look too bored as a girl – one of Hestia’s daughters – chatters at him about… he doesn’t know. He tuned her out two drinks ago.

It takes some fast-talking to extract himself but at least Stiles succeeds, and he ducks away into a side balcony for a breather.

He does not expect the figure that glides out of the shadows mere moments later.

“Oh,” Stiles straightens before dipping his head in a slight bow of respect because even he knows the god of the underworld on sight, Talia and Deucalion’s younger – and infinitely more manipulative if rumours are to be believed – brother, Peter. “I apologize. I was not aware this balcony was occupied.”

The god – handsome, dark-haired, eyes as blue as the hottest of fires – waves a dismissive hand as he joins Stiles by the balustrade. “I hardly mind the company.”

He smiles at Stiles in a distinctly unsettling way. Hungry, Stiles thinks, and has to suppress a shiver.

“You are one of the harvest god’s sons, correct?” Peter drifts a step closer. He is shorter than you might think, about equal to Stiles in stature, if somewhat broader across the shoulders, but the weight of his presence is more than enough to make up for any lack of height. “May I know your name?”

Stiles studies the older god, a little guarded, mostly curious. Any way you look at it, someone like Peter shouldn’t have any reason or desire to talk to a minor god like Stiles at all. “…Stiles. My name is Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Peter repeats, and the name curls around his tongue like silk and sin. “It’s a pleasure.”

Stiles can’t help it. He cocks his head. “Why?”

Peter looks amused. He takes another step, and now they’re nearly sharing breathing space.

“I have heard whispers of your travels,” The god tells him, and Stiles stiffens.

“‘Whispers’?”

“Only heard by those who pay attention,” Peter assures. “You are favoured by one of my nephews, Hermes. Did you not know?”

“No, I did not,” As far as Stiles is aware, nobody favours him. “But if you have heard-”

“I believe knowledge to be an invaluable asset so I make a point of knowing the comings and goings of those around me,” Peter smirks. “Fear not; I am certain no one else knows, aside from Hermes, and you travel almost as much as he does. He was bound to notice your adventures. But the other inhabitants of Olympus have always been rather hopeless at paying attention to anything not found between a partner’s legs.”

The flippant,  _improper_ remark startles a laugh out of Stiles, unrestrained and shameless as it rings out into the night, and Peter grins back, a wicked curve on his face that only serves to strengthen his regal bearing.

Stiles is oddly breathless in the aftermath, even more so when one of Peter’s hands boldly rises to brush gentle knuckles over Stiles’ cheekbone.

“You outshine Aphrodite when you laugh,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles’ eyes go wide even as his face flushes hot and red.

“You… should not say that,” Stiles reprimands after a few uncertain seconds.

“No?” Peter’s hand is still hovering next to Stiles’ face, a moth’s wing away from touching. “But it is the truth.”

Stiles purses his lips, and thinks about stepping back, but in the end, he stands his ground and accuses, “You are toying with me.”

For the first time, a frown knits the arch of the older god’s brow, and his hand falls away, back to his side. “I am not.”

“You are!” Stiles huffs. “You-” He pins Peter with a narrow-eyed stare. “You say you prize knowledge so you must have already known who I am when you approached me.”

Peter doesn’t blink, and for a moment, Stiles thinks the god will lie. But then Peter quirks another smile and says with utter solemnity, “You are clever; I like that. Yes, I knew who you are. But that hardly means I am toying with you. On the contrary, I rarely ever find myself engaging in such charming conversation. And you are enjoying yourself as well, are you not?”

He looks as if the very idea of Stiles  _not_  enjoying himself in Peter’s presence is an impossibility, and it makes Stiles roll his eyes, only to hastily stop midway because one does not roll their eyes at the elder gods. But he hears Peter chuckle, and somehow, it makes Stiles relax.

The distant noises of the ongoing party is carried to their ears on the night breeze. Stiles fiddles with the sleeve of his robes before glancing at Peter again, who watches him like could stand here all night with Stiles and not grow tired of it.

“Why did you bring up my travels?” Stiles enquires after a minute of thought. “It is not so interesting.  _I_ am not so interesting.”

“Are you not?” The cant of Peter’s head catches the light of the moon and makes his eyes glow. “You are an inquisitive one. You ask questions. You are not satisfied with the perfection of Olympus. You look at humans and see their potential despite their destructive nature, and you look at the other gods and find them lacking despite the authority they wield. And,” His expression turns sly. “You have been leaving me a trail of gifts, little godling.”

It takes a beat, two, and then Stiles understands. He twitches, instinct telling him to flee, but Peter is already crowding close and trapping him against the balustrade, hands coming to rest on the stone banister on either side of Stiles’ arms.

“Now, now, dear boy,” Peter murmurs, his words ghosting over Stiles’ lips. “I did not say the gifts were ill-received.”

Stiles remains frozen for the longest time, and when he speaks, his voice comes out hushed but savage and all teeth. “They  _deserved_ it.”

Peter smiles, full of something like triumph and admiration and recognition all. “Yes they did. And now they serve in the halls of my kingdom, tyrant kings and arrogant fools brought to their knees, their legacies reduced to dust and fading memory.”

Peter takes one of Stiles’ hands in his own and brings it to his lips. Stiles’ breath catches.

“Would you like to see, Stiles?” He whispers, eyes never wavering from Stiles’ own. “A kingdom at your fingertips. An entire realm for you to explore.”

Stiles stares back, mesmerized and motionless with disbelief. “…Are you… Are you offering me suit?”

Peter thumbs the back of Stiles’ hand in distracting circles. “And if I am? Would you accept?”

“You wish to  _court_  me,” Stiles restates slowly. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why not?”

“You are- you!” He bursts out. “And I am- I am just-”

“You are ‘just’ nothing,” Peter firmly refutes, his regard an intense thing to behold. “You learn quickly, you adapt even more so, and you are ruthless when you pursue something you believe in.  You are _magnificent_ , and I pity those who do not see it.”

Stiles is certain his face is red all over again. No one has ever flattered him so, and that makes all the difference. He will not have his head turned by a few pretty words.

“You have been watching me,” He accuses instead. “You have been  _following_ me.”

Peter shrugs, an elegant up and down of his black-clothed shoulders. “You fascinate me.”

For a while, they simply breathe together in a silence that isn’t so uncomfortable. Stiles mulls the older god’s words over, trying to make sense of it. Peter seems content with tangling their fingers together and giving Stiles time.

“I still do not believe you,” Stiles says at last.

“A wise decision, most would say,” Peter agrees with a twist of a smirk. “But I am not trying to deceive you, Stiles. All that I have to offer – kingdom and gold, knowledge and souls, a crown, a throne, and a place beside me – all this, I would lay at your feet.”

“I do not see why you would want to-”

“Then allow me to show you,” Peter gives his hand a tender squeeze. His gaze does not falter, and every word holds the weight of an honesty so fierce it almost frightens Stiles. “Allow me to court you, Stiles.”

Stiles is quiet again. He looks down at their laced fingers and thinks this alone is already several steps beyond the first stages of courting. And yet he allows it. Stiles has never been one for rules, and – it seems – neither is Peter.

“You have offered me riches,” Stiles meets the older god’s gaze again, embarrassed, perhaps, but defiant too because this is something his mother taught him ever since he was but a babe on her knee. “You have offered me temptation. And you have offered me power. But you have not offered me your heart, and I will not accept any suit without it.”

To his surprise, Peter laughs, deep and rich and lovely. “You are a gift beyond measure, darling, truly. But you see, Stiles, I cannot offer you something you already possess.”

And  _oh_ , that is-

“Let me court you,” Peter requests for the third time that night. “And I swear on the river Styx I will never give you reason to regret it.”

 

* * *

 

Those within sight and earshot go silent when the god of the underworld appears the next evening, dressed in fine but humble clothing. He falls gracefully to his knees before the harvest god’s eldest son, reverence in the bow of his head and the brightness of his eyes, and from his hands he presents a bouquet of flowers that shimmer a brilliant silver under the night sky, along with the first of many old texts, a grimoire from the priceless, expansive libraries of the kingdom of the dead.

All of Olympus explode in an uproar when the harvest god’s son rises from his seat and accepts the offer of courtship.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


End file.
